Natural order
by TeddyTR
Summary: There is a natural order of things. It is comfortable and predictable and noone really likes to change it. But sometimes they have to, anyway.
1. Chapter 1

_Another one for Common Law, this amazing show, which made me write again._  
_My fellow writers, please contribute more to this fandom, because it is amazing!_

* * *

„No, no, Travis, _Travis, stop_!" Wes shouts, but it's in vain. Of course it is. _Of course_ Travis wouldn't listen. Travis _never_ listens. He should though, to Wes, if no one else. 'Cause Wes is in charge for saving his sorry ass from situations like this. From situations where Travis thinks it would be good to be a hero. A psycho, hands full of firearms, retreated into his own home-made bunker? Piece of cake! Get the hostages and bathe in glory for the rest of the day. Travis never even considers the possibility of death. It isn't in his nature. So Wes does it for him. If only he would _listen._

But he doesn't, so Wes stands there and stares after him as Travis lunges forward. It takes only a blink of an eye for him to move after his partner, but that is the exact moment when their suspect starts firing. Wes is forced to hold his position. He feels his heartbeat accelerate, not because he was almost shot himself, but because he knows Travis had even less chance of avoiding the attack. He hears himself shouting (well, screaming) for the squad to move in _immediately an officer needs backup damnit._

The next few minutes blur. This hardly happens to Wes. He is _always_ focused. But now he finds it really hard to pay attention to the squad behind him, or his body moving on its own in the second the bullets stop hissing through the air. He would frown on that later, because it is so not protocol, but he just can't help it. Next thing he knows is a door colliding heavily with his right shoulder. It cracks open without a fight. Wes registers that his gun is trembling slightly in his hands. He realizes it's because he's afraid. Not from a psycho killer with a machine-gun, but from a certain scene he does not want to encounter with.

And yeah, you could say that this is cliché, that cops should be prepared to face situations like this, or even worse, but Wes still misses a heartbeat there. There's this one split second, when you don't know yet. Which way will it be today?

Wes's voice fails; it's the policeman behind him that shouts "LAPD, hands where I can see them!" They push in. Hostages run into their arms and it takes time for Wes to comprehend the meaning behind that. Travis's beaming face helps as he hands over the suspect (no, the criminal) to a random someone (Wes couldn't care less). He looks at him and _grins._ Wes feels suddenly out of air and not in a good sense. This is Travis's doing. He never had these kinds of… fits before. It is _always_ Travis.

He turns his back on him without a word and storms out. If he's going to explode, at least he wants to spare the little dignity he has left and not do it in front of the whole squad (and the civilians)(and the criminal). Travis follows. _Of course_ he follows. That's what they do. They follow each other around. No one really knows why (not even them). It's just the natural order of things.

"Hey, you saw that, man? That was pretty awesome, right?" Travis starts cheerfully. Yes, Wes recognizes this part through his red haze. This is the part where they should banter about which one of them is the better cop. He ignores the comment though, and continues to stomp towards the car.

"I mean that was one badass move in." Even after all this time, Travis doesn't know when to drop a subject. Wes reaches the car, but can't make himself get in. He stands leaning on the door and counts to ten. He only gets to three. _Of course_ Travis is incapable of holding his mouth.

"Hey, Wes, you hear me? Oh, you should have seen his face."

"Travis" he manages to press through his tight lips. "Could you please shut up?"

Even after all this time, Wes doesn't know better than to waste his breath asking this question.

"Aw, look who's jealous."

Maybe it's the teasing tone (does the trick most of the time), maybe it's the adrenalin, or maybe something entirely different (he does not want to name it), but Wes's mind slips out of its precious control.

"You know what? You can take all the credit for being a _lunatic,_" he hisses.

Apparently it's more furious than usual, 'cause Travis asks flinching. "Hey, what's your problem?"

"_You._ You are my problem, Travis." Wes's voice inches higher with every word. Higher and louder. "You and your incapability of thinking! Why can't you go by protocol? Why can't you just _listen_ for one fucking time in your life?"

"Chill, man, it went alright."

"Alright? _Alright? _It was _everything_, but alright! It was unnecessary, idiotic, but most of all, _suicidal_! But you're a cop, Travis, high-ass homicide detective; you should be able to tell!" Wes is literally bellowing now.

And Travis, well Travis is at loss. "Hey, Wes-" He tries soothing, but he's interrupted.

"No! You don't have a fucking clue, do you? You don't give a crap, but guess what, I do! I fucking do! So think about this when you are oh so eager to get some holes into that dumb head of yours next time: it is me who has to go through _all_ of your family members and tell them I couldn't do it! Sounds _fucking exhausting_, right? So do your partner a favor and don't-" Wes's throat tightens around the word 'die'. He's almost as surprised as Travis is, hearing him stop this abruptly.

In the sudden silence, Wes's own words hit him. The picture of Travis's mothers and brothers come up in his mind and he feels his rage fade into something that makes his eyes burn. He huffs, rips the car open and slumps in.

Travis follows. Of course.

Travis manages to hold it for almost a whole moment. Almost.

"Look, I'm sorry, okay?" He says and Wes does his best not to look at him bewildered.

"I didn't know you cared so much."

At that, Wes wants to start shouting again. How many times has he told him to be more careful? How many times did he run like hell for him? _To_ him? Isn't it obvious? And then he thinks, no, maybe it's not. 'Cause how many times did he say the opposite?

"What about your family, moron?" He manages to growl.

"They made their peace with all of this."

_Easy when you are not here to witness it,_ Wes thinks, but doesn't say so. There are many things he doesn't say. And every time something like this happens, he wishes he would. But he always ends up withholding.

"Thank you for worrying about me, baby." Travis jokes. Wes thinks it's not funny at all, but still feels his mouth curl upwards, just a tiny bit.

"Shut up." He retorts and starts the engine.

And again, this is so typical. Normal people stop here. Last sentence nicely terminating the conflict. End of story. But not them. Oh no, there is _definitely_ no last word for Wes and Travis, 'cause they will just go on and on, neither of them letting the other have it.

It's Travis's turn now.

"What was 'it'?" He asks.

"What was what?" Wes asks back even though he's afraid he knows exactly what is 'it'.

"You said you'd have to tell my family you couldn't do it. Couldn't do what?"

If Wes weren't driving and it wouldn't be so against the Highway Code, he would close his eyes. That's what you get when you let your moth slip. Trust Travis to catch it. Trust him to confront you.

"'Was not my point, Travis." He tries to get off the subject. Mistake. The more you don't want to talk about something, the more Travis will _insist_ talking about it.

"I know, but I'm curious."

He is not _that_ teasing. What's more, he sounds so honest that Wes considers telling him for a second.

It all flashes into his thoughts. He became a lawyer _and_ a cop because he believed in the system. Never had anyone in particular to protect. Being alone didn't hit Wes like surprise. He wasn't really nice and caring. He knew the law and knew how to shoot. Not much to offer to a woman. Or to anyone else. And it was fine. Wes understood. What _did_ surprise him was Travis. Astonishing as it was, as it still is in every waking moment, Travis chose to be by his side. Travis trusts him with his life. Travis refuses to leave. It happened gradually and Wes realized way too late that he's stuck with a kind of responsibility he's not accustomed to. This partnership, relationship, connection, or the hell it's called – he became unable to let it go. So he does what he is capable of. Law and shooting. For Travis. It's the ironic twist of fate that he ended up beside someone who does _everything_ to get into trouble. So Wes does what he can, fearing the day when it won't be enough.

But no, he snorts inwardly, it would sound all touchy-feely-taylor-swifty, and that, Wes can't do.

"Shame, 'cause I'm not telling you." Another mental note for the-things-I'm-not-telling-Travis.

"Come _on_! Why?"

"Because."

"Tell me!"

"No."

"Yes!"

"No."

"Yes!"

"No!"

And so on. There is no end. But that's just the natural order of things.


	2. Chapter 2

Wes is not at his desk. Travis frowns and looks around to see if anyone else has noticed this blemish. Apparently, no. They should notice though, 'cause it's 9:15 a.m. and Wes is not at his desk. He is _always_ early. Or punctual, at least. Him, sitting at his desk became an organic part of Travis's mornings. A reliable momentum that tells him the day will be fine. _Fun_, he corrects himself. Fine _and_ fun. 'Cause Wes is always there. It's the natural order of things.

Travis looks at his watch again which is unusual in itself. He wears watches for merely fashion benefits. Wes is the one responsible for time. But it's 9:16 and he is nowhere to be seen. Travis decides that search parties should have departured precisely 16 minutes ago. He is in the middle of telling this to Captain Sutton, when the doors fly open and Wes arrives.

Things make sense again and Travis would deny later (even to himself) this ridiculous search party stuff. He strides back to his own desk, never taking his eyes off his partner while doing so. Something is wrong. Apart from being late, Wes looks like crap. The thing is, Wes _never_ looks like crap. He _makes sure_ not to look like crap. One time he allowed Travis into his bathroom and Travis can't stop joking about it since. Super models don't have such a massive amount of goo to rub into their skin. He also has to admit that the result is quite pleasing. But not today. Wes is paler than usual, he has dark bruises under his eyes, his hair is a mess, shirt is all rumpled. Very, very wrong.

But the final hit is yet to come. See, yesterday, Travis hid Wes's hand sanitizer. Again. Yeah-yeah, childish, but it's their game and he loves playing it. He suspects Wes loves too. So their morning routine would go like "where's my hand sanitizer, come on guys I have my name on it on purpose, damn it Travis, not again". Except that today Wes doesn't even look for it! Travis thinks this must be the sign of the upcoming apocalypse.

He looks around again; he can't be the only one who sees this anomaly in the matrix. But yes, he still is. He always is.

"Wes?" He starts 'cause he can't bear the silence anymore. Silence is not what they do.

"Yeah?" Wes lifts his head from his palms, where it was resting. "Ah, sorry, morning, Travis."

"You alright?"

"I'm fine."

"You look like shit."

"Thanks."

"Wanna talk about it?"

"No." Wes says, and Travis has to smile at how this whole conversation went just as expected. If his thoughts weren't be occupied with his partner's strange behavior, he would probably freak out. Travis never knew anyone this well, never stayed long enough to learn all the little things. That's how he liked it. And it ended five years ago, without him realizing.

"Wes has troubles with sleeping and he won't tell me why!" Travis blurts out before Dr. Ryan can start the session officially.

"Argh" goes Wes, because her attention is on them instantly. The others sit back in their chairs smiling, waiting for the show.

"Wes? Is that true?" Dr. Ryan asks.

Wes frowns and keeps his eyes on the floor while talking. "I don't see how this is relevant. It usually passes after a couple of days anyway."

"_Usually_?" Travis says turning to him. Wes buries his face into his palms. He hardly lets things slip, and when he does, it's not a good sign. It's either when he's extremely angry (and Travis quickly searches his memories to see if he's done something, because it's often, okay, it is always him) or extremely exhausted (Travis doesn't like this option at all).

"You can't fall asleep or you have nightmares?" Dr. Ryan asks with a cool, rational tone.

Travis knows which one it is immediately (from the way Wes flinches and yeah, this is one of those little things). "_Nightmares_?"

"I… I don't want to talk about it." A feeble attempt on Wes's part.

But Travis is already two steps ahead. "It's cop stuff, right? It's normal, man, we all have those sometimes."

"What Travis means" Dr. Ryan explains "is that your work is a dangerous and terrifying one. It is only natural if you have problems processing, now and then. Nightmares are means for facing our fears. And it always helps to talk it out."

"I don't want to talk it out!" Wes is irate now, so Travis tries to help.

"I had those stereotypical ones, when I was new at homicide." He starts telling the group. "Like, you know, can't find my gun, it won't fire, bad guy has a canon…"

"A canon?" Clyde asks.

"Thank you for sharing Travis." Dr. Ryan interrupts, stopping him from going on blabbering about canons. "See, Wes? It is okay."

"It's nothing as ridiculous as that!" Wes snaps.

"Is it worse, then?" Dr. Ryan half-asks half-states.

Travis starts to have a bad feeling about this. He is eyeing Wes, detective skills spinning into action.

"I don't. Want. To talk about it." His partner says gritting his teeth and Travis doesn't miss the slight glance in his direction and the tightening muscles in Wes's back.

Oh no, Travis thinks, this is real bad.

"It's me." He says out loud. He's not asking. He doesn't have to. He is a damn good detective.

Wes winces with his whole body, as if Travis has just kicked him in the stomach.

"Session's over." The blond hisses and storms out.

"Can I?" Travis looks at Dr. Ryan for permission. He gets a nod and he's out of the room.

Wes's is in the car. Of course. It is his last sanctuary. Or, more likely, the only one. He sits in front of the wheel and tries to stare a whole into it. Travis opens the door and sits beside him casually. They remain in silence.

But as you already know, silence is not what they do.

This is one of the rare occasions when Travis waits for Wes to go first. He doesn't like it, he wants to talk, ask a dozen questions and all, but he also wants Wes to open up. And Wes does, after a while.

"It is you," he says quietly.

"Yeah. What happens?"

"You… you die, Travis."

It's not like Travis hasn't seen this coming. He did. Quite obvious. What he did not expect is Wes's tone of voice. The cracks are so audible they make him huddle up a bit. He looks in the eyes of his partner and he sees that Wes is tired, _drained_ and is that a spark of fear?

"You're very creative about it, actually." Wes tries to joke, but the edge refuses to go away. He goes back to staring down the wheel. "They are dreams. It's not like I can help it."

A much more pleasurable conversation rings in Travis's ears, but this is no time for nostalgia.

"I mean I tried to help. You. In my dreams." Wes is faltering now. "But I could never… Guess that's why they are called nightmares, right? They are not supposed to go in your way. Right? Travis? You're listening?"

"I'm sorry." Travis says and meets with Wes's baffled face. Usually, these are the things he does not say to him. But this is a special occasion. 'Cause We doesn't look alright and it's driving Travis up the wall, so he is ready to go further. "I know it's my fault. I'm not an easy partner; I rush into situations without thinking about the risks. I know it's hard on you, 'cause if our roles were reversed…" Okay, not that far.

"Yeah, well…" Wes fidgets in his seat. "Thank you. For that."

Not the first partner to whom I cause trouble, Travis thinks. But the first he _really does not_ _want_ to trouble. The offer is out of his mouth before he could comprehend his own words. Huh, ironic.

"I could try to pay attention." He gulps. This is a promise he can't fulfill, so he adds: "Sometimes."

And Wes does the most unexpected thing (he tends to do that): he laughs. Now, it is a very rare sight, so Travis stares at it shamelessly, carving every pixel into his mind.

"No, it's fine." Wes says, still smiling. "I don't want you to change."

The air stops in the car. While Wes turns all red, realizing what he has just said, Travis decides he likes these slips.

"Was that an 'I like you just the way you are'?" He asks grinning.

"Absolutely not." Wes says, but also manages to deepen his ruby shade further (which is quite an achievement).

Their routine is back, on the surface at least. Travis doesn't forget about the problem. Growing up, he had seen only one working cure for nightmares. Company. If it worked on children, sure it would be okay for Wes? So Travis pulls some cards and gets them a stakeout (Wes would never agree on sleeping together, well, in the same place, without any reason – a bit early for that). A nice, calm one, with a suspect who's very probably not the criminal they are looking for.

Considering his condition, it's quite a valiant fight Wes puts up. It is almost 11 p.m. when Travis comes back from the kitchen and finds him out cold on the sofa. He lays a blanket over him and sits down, close enough for their legs to touch. Sometimes the only thing one needs to feel is that they are not alone. And if this is what Wes needs, then Travis will sit on the sofa all night. It's as simple as that; the natural order of things.

Wes doesn't stir until morning.


	3. Chapter 3

So Wes is not the caring type. _Can't_ be the caring type. Not really. This, he knew about himself. What he didn't know is that he has exceptions. One exception. Wes frowns. Oh, it sounds very cheesy now. But he can't help it and _of course_ it's Travis's fault again.

See, normal people know when they are sick. Headache, fever, nausea, this stuff. Quite hard to miss. But it seems like if you're Travis Marks, it's not that obvious. 'Cause if you're Travis Marks, you'll go to work, insist on being fine and then kindly puke all over your partner's car and claim you have absolutely no idea how or why that happened.

The car should have hit a nerve. It always hits a nerve. Wes doesn't know what's wrong with him. He is simply not able to care about the car. Travis is babbling on and on and he can't care about that either. He ignores the _whole_ thing and dials his doctor.

"Hey, Bob, do you have some time? Yeah. No, it's a friend. Okay."

Slower than usual, Travis processes the situation.

"No, it's cool, man, I don't need to see a doc," he jabbers very unconvincingly.

Wes ignores him. They are at the clinic in no time.

"Nothing serious, " Bob says cheerfully and Wes relaxes. He hasn't noticed his stiff muscles until now.

"You probably ate something. You should watch your food in the next few days. With some rest, you'll be good to go in 48 hours." He pats Travis's shoulders.

Despite the protesting, Wes takes him home. He can't recall how he got a key to Travis's apartment, but thanks to it they get in without trouble (trouble meaning Travis puking on the corridor). While his partner runs to have a happy reunion with his toilet, Wes looks around. He doesn't come here often, but the place still feels strangely familiar. He likes it. Clean, warm and stylish. You could say, he likes it _very much._ Another score for things-I'm-not-telling-Travis.

To distract himself, he checks for supplies. It doesn't surprise him that the fridge contains nothing else, but a lone bottle of milk. This is Travis's apartment after all. He'd need to go shopping.

"Travis?" he calls and peeks into the bathroom.

"I think I'm ready," the other man rasps. "That was a_wesome_."

"Glad you're having fun. You should change."

Wes gets him a soft T-shirt and a boxer (again, he tries and fails to recall how he knows where Travis keeps those...).

"Thanks, baby." Travis smiles at him weakly.

"You and the garbage you call food," Wes growls. He shouldn't pick on him when he's sick, but he is irritated (worried) and somehow he cannot find any other way to deal with it.

Travis retorts with the same practice. "Yeah, I should do a cleansing diet like you did. Oh, wait."

"Very funny. Now, to the bed with you."

"But Wes! No foreplay?"

Seeing Travis's smug grin makes Wes release a small, relieved sigh. The idiot is not on the edge of dying then. He gives him a pointed look anyway (can't think of anything clever to that remark).

"I'll get you some _real _food later," he says while helping Travis settle in. "I'll be outside, call if you need something."

"Wait, you'll stay?"

Wes tenses. Right. This is a bit out of character. But he didn't even consider leaving Travis like this. Also, he didn't think of the possibility that maybe he does not want him to stay. Now he does both and a treacherous blush of embarrassment creeps up on his throat.

"I thought you might not want to choke on your bile and die a not too dignified death alone, but do tell if I was wrong." Being an asshole helped Wes to feel control over most situations.

"Ew, man, no need to be gross, I was just asking."

"I guess that means I _am_ right."

"The couch is open for you anytime," Travis says and it is probably due to the sickness, 'cause the statement means much more than an outsider would assume, and it is too much to say when it comes to them.

Because, you see, Wes knows. He knows that Travis is lonely in this apartment (he is used to be surrounded by a lot of people, so it's only natural), and he knows Travis knows he is lonely too. He did notice all the half-invitations he got; only he was too afraid to take any of them. Getting close to someone, it is not as easy for him as it is for Travis. Sometimes he wishes it would be.

"I know," he says and this time there is no tension or embarrassment in it. It sounds a bit sad and full with the things-I'm-not-telling-Travis. He closes the bedroom door before he could get an answer and decides that this is the best time to go shopping.

He fills the fridge with a decent amount of food. _Normal_ food. Vegetables, yoghurts, bio stuff. He can almost hear the whining he'll get for this and an unnoticed smile plays around his lips. He hides a grilled chicken and a pie behind the new boxes of milk, so that Travis would find them when he feels alright enough to empty the fridge. The smile blossoms into something that is dangerously close to what people call affectionate look. Wes finally realizes it and quickly rearranges his features.

He checks on Travis (sleeping like a toddler) and nestles in on the couch. He dozes off surprisingly quickly. This day might not went by the natural order of things (and Wes adores order), but half-asleep he thinks it wasn't that bad. Not bad at all…


	4. Chapter 4

"Travis, _wait_!" Wes hisses when Travis is already on the move, all like a never ending déjà vu.

He's got him. Mad son of a bitch walked into a trap. Dead end, baby. So Travis runs and smiles for his future victory. He slams the door open and… and no one's there. The smile fades as Travis realizes that he's been tricked and now he is the one in the trap. He wouldn't have enough time to turn around and defend himself. But he doesn't have to. He hears Wes shouting "LAPD" in the background. He is luring the shooter away from him. Travis grins. Others consider him to be a lucky dog for getting away from hot situations, but in reality, it's Wes. It's always Wes.

His glee remains until shots resonate through the air. One, a pause, and two quick in a row. The world stops in order to let Travis listen to the echoes and make his blood run ice-cold. He's running now, desperately, he would run through walls if he could. He doesn't want to think, but his mind processes the information anyway. Cop practice. One, pause, two. Two men fired. One once, the other twice. Twice. Two bullets. Professional would be one for the head, one for the heart, leaving the other… No. Travis decides Wes was the one who fired twice. That also leaves him with the first shot which… missed, Travis thinks fiercely.

After what seems like an eternity, he finally gets to Wes. For a second, joy sweeps over him. His partner is the one who stands. The other is lying a few meters away in a big pool of blood. Professional, Travis thinks proudly. He was right about the first part. This moment of relief and triumph falls apart painfully as Wes slides to the floor, leaving a red trail on the wall behind him. Second part, wrong.

He falls to his knees beside his partner and panics. His thoughts are foggy, nothing makes sense, and he the only thing can concentrate on is the blood that's flowing out from Wes. It looks… wrong. A vague medical knowledge hovers by the edge of his mind. Shot from the back, left shoulder, close to the heart, gotta stop the bleeding.

"Pressure," Travis mumbles. His hands shake as he wraps his jacket around the wound. He pushes. Wes lets out a chocked cry which feels like a dagger in his heart, but he can't let more blood out. Stop the bleeding, it will be okay, just stop the bleeding.

"Shit," he swears because he almost forgot to call the meds. He jabbers the address into his phone, voice cracking at the words 'one officer down'. He throws the mobile away angrily. Damn everything.

Wes is silent and suddenly Travis is too much aware of that fact. He realizes he himself too is very silent and it's not good, it's out of character, it's all wrong.

"Wes," he whispers (where the hell did his voice go?). He clears his throat and tries again. "Hey, Wes, you hear me?"

"You're leaning into my face, Travis, of course I hear you." Wes means to say it on his usual, lecture-giving tone, but he sounds far too weak for Travis's liking.

"Good, then would you mind opening your eyes?"

Wes groans quietly and opens his eyes, only slightly.

"Now what?" He asks and the shadow of a playful smile appears on his too-white face.

Travis laughs hysterically (he didn't know he was capable of doing that).

"Now you keep them open while we wait for the meds."

There are a lot of things, no, _tons_ of things Travis wants to say. Regret hits him hard and unexpected. He waited for good occasions and right places, but in reality, he was just too lazy to break their everyday practice. It was cozy, and fun, and reliable. And now he is crouching on cold concrete and his palm is the only thing that stops Wes's heart from pumping his life out of him. What if he's too late?

And you could say that come on, they are cops, they should expect that something like this might happen someday. But it never happened and Travis always thought it's because they are damn good cops. He only now realized. It was Wes. It was Wes all the way.

Travis was never protected. He had learnt to survive the hard way and decided to be a cop, because he wanted to spare others from that hard way. And yeah, he had some pretty close calls, but who cared? Who…

How can things change so quietly? Travis knew his bullet was coming, but he failed to notice the hand that pushed him out of the way _years_ ago.

That too, along with so many things, left unsaid because of the natural order of things.

Wes should get a chance to hear them. He would certainly make a list, Travis smiled inwardly. Make a list and name it something ridiculous, like things-Travis-never-told-me.

He needs Wes to make lists. He needs Wes to keep track on time. He needs Wes to demand his hand sanitizer. He needs Wes. And Wes is closing his eyes again.

"No, hey, Wes, what have I just told you?"

Travis's heart creeps up into his throat as he gets no answer.

"Wesley Mitchell, don't you close your eyes on me!"

It would be funny in any other case, 'cause Wes hates 'Wesley'. It reminds him of his father (and Travis knows there's an issue there, but never asked, he should have asked). What would be even funnier is the fact that Wes manages to frown on him (with eyes open!).

"Don't call me that," he slurs.

"I'll do worse; I'll call you sunshine and tell the doctors we are married. I advise you to stay conscious if you have any objections."

Now, this might be because of the blood loss and the pain, but Wes, again, does something ridiculously shocking. He looks indecisive. If it weren't for the drama of the situation, Travis would be blissful to see that, but given the circumstances, he feels more like panicked.

"Just stay with me." He says urgently and that's the moment when medical stuff burst into the room (finally, the hell took them so long).

Travis is pushed away gently. He catches Wes saying 'I will', before he is carried away.


	5. Chapter 5

Wes is told that he is very lucky. He frowns at that. Stitches pull his skin, breathing hurts and the hospital room is far less clean than one would expect. Oh, yeah, he feels very lucky indeed. Shot in the back or not, he still has the power to voice some of his observations.

"I hope at least the sheets are new ones," he says to a baffled doctor when he hears a chuckle from the door.

"Come on, Wes, give him a break, he saved your life," says Travis as he steps in.

"Well, it's his job," Wes mumbles.

Travis shakes his head and turns to the doctor. "He means thank you, doc."

"I'm sure he does," comes the slightly irritated answer. "I'll come back later to check Mr. Mitchell's condition." With that, Wes and Travis are left alone.

"Unbelievable, man." Travis huffs and slumps into the armchair next to the bed. "You woke up, what, ten minutes ago and you're giving lectures already. I'm glad to see you're fine."

On an ordinary day, Wes would continue arguing, stating how not alright he is, but today's different. He feels it in the air between them. Something changed and Wes is not sure. He doesn't really like change.

But, again, he was (maybe still is) quite freaked out. He thought he would die. He thought it would be alright. He knew someday he would a catch a bullet for Travis and it was fine, no, more than fine with him. But he never expected facing Travis as he goes. Seeing the desperation in his eyes. The fear. The… who knows what… Wes always thought it would be easy to go with the knowledge that he saved his partner. As if fulfilling the purpose of your life – that should make you feel peaceful and accomplished, right? But what Wes felt there, lying on the ground with Travis's trembling hands on him, was neither of those. He felt regret.

He looks at Travis. The other man doesn't meet his eyes, just sits there quietly. Quite a change. And here it comes again. Regret. And something even more shocking – guilt. Wes thinks he should feel like the hero of the day, but he doesn't. Not after seeing the state Travis is in. (The usual shine is nowhere to be found, he clearly hasn't slept and oh, he looks too much like Wes and Wes hates that.)

"I'm sorry," he says, because he can't think of anything else.

Travis finally turns his head towards him. His eyebrows shoot so high they may fly off his forehead.

"What?"

"I'm… I was reckless and-"

"Wes." Travis lifts a finger to silence him. "Tell me you're not apologizing for being shot."

Wes frowns. "I… I'm not sure."

Travis laughs, the smile not reaching his eyes. "They must be giving you some real good stuff through that IV." Suddenly, he turns very serious. "I'm afraid we have a lot more to discuss than thank yous and apologies. What do you think?"

Wes swallows. Change, yes. He might not like it, but he dislikes regret even more.

"I agree," he says softly and the tenseness slips out of the room. Maybe it won't be so bad, after all.

"That's my baby." Travis is almost back to himself as he pats Wes's hand. "And we'll start after you rested a bit. Even though it all would be funnier with you drugged…"

"Shut up." Wes smiles sleepily. He doesn't comment on the fact that Travis forgot his hand on his. He doesn't make any attempt to break the contact either. Maybe sometimes it's good to break the natural order of things.

"Just one more thing," he hears Travis saying, and frowns half-asleep. "I did tell the nurses we were married. Thought you should know."

As the pain killers pull him into a dreamless sleep, Wes thinks, "_WHAT?"_


End file.
